[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  Just a few feet away Suheir pressed his attack, hammering at the champion with one fearsome blow after another that tried to batter aside the warrior’s defences. The champion blocked each stroke with nimble movements of his left-hand sword. Then, just as Suheir drew back for another punishing stroke, the champion lashed out at the knight-captain’s shield arm, knocking it wide so that he could lunge forward with his right-hand sword and strike the side of Suheir’s left knee. The knight-captain’s armour didn’t carry the same enchantments as Malus’ did; steel pins snapped, lames and poleyn shattered and the champion’s sword carved deep into the knee-joint. The druchii fell onto his good knee with a bellow of pain, covering his wounded leg with his shield as the Chaos warrior sprang to his feet like a hill-cat and levelled his weapons at Suheir’s head.

  The Chaos warrior was so intent on finishing the knight-captain that he didn’t see the table Malus hurled at him until it was far too late. With no time to duck or dodge the solid oaken tabletop the champion could only raise his swords and smash the hurtling furniture to bits with his twin swords.

  Above the splintering crash of the thick wood rose a furious roar and the ringing clash of steel on steel. The Chaos champion staggered back half a step—and slowly lowered his head to the length of druchii steel jutting from his midsection. Suheir’s fearsome strength had driven his blade clean through the champion’s torso, emerging more than a foot from the warrior’s steel backplate.

  And yet the champion did not fall. For an appalling instant the two warriors were transfixed, each staring at the wound Suheir’s sword had made. A line of thick, black ichor flowed heavily down the back of the silver steel blade. Then with a guttural growl the champion’s swords flashed and Suheir’s head bounced across the matted earth. The knight-captain’s body toppled onto its side, pouring a freshet of blood onto the ground, while the champion drove his right-hand sword into the dirt and used his free hand to reach for Suheir’s sword, still jutting from his abdomen.

  Shevael let out a panicked wail and Malus pushed him away, gritting his teeth at the pain as he limped quickly across the chamber. Flames were climbing the back wall of the tent and licking at several of the bookshelves, kindled by the scattered coals from the upended brazier.

  The young highborn staggered, his face a pale mask of terror and rage. With a trembling hand he drew his second sword, and with a deep breath a sense of eerie calm stole across his features. “Make your escape, my lord,” the young highborn shouted. “I’ll cover your retreat.”

  Shevael’s grim tone brought Malus up short. “No, you young fool!” he cried. “You don’t stand a chance—”

  But the young highborn wasn’t listening. With a furious shout he charged at the struggling champion, his twin swords describing a deadly figure-eight pattern. The Chaos champion lurched backwards in the wake of the sudden attack, stumbling on a pile of spilled books, and Shevael’s swords struck the warrior multiple times in the head, chest and leg. But the young highborn’s blows were hasty and poorly aimed, and could not penetrate the champion’s heavy armour. The Chaos warrior righted himself and with a convulsive motion wrenched Suheir’s ichor-stained sword from his body. Still shouting curses at the champion, Shevael pressed his attack, but he underestimated the Chaos warrior’s skill. As the young highborn rushed in the champion backhanded Shevael across the face with the pommel of Suheir’s dripping blade and in the same motion extended his left arm and stabbed the young knight in the throat. Bright, red blood burst from the awful wound and Shevael collapsed to the ground, gasping and choking for air.

  Cursing bitterly, Malus reached his objective. His armoured fingers closed about the iron grillwork of the second brazier, the drying blood on his armoured fingers hissing on contact. Using his daemonically-infused strength he lifted the red-hot container and hurled it at the champion, catching the Chaos warrior full in the chest. The warrior fell with a resounding clang and a hiss of scorched flesh, his body covered in searing coals and ash. More embers scattered across the enclosure, burning holes in the tent wall and starting more fires among the shredded papers.

  Malus leapt to Shevael’s side, but already the blood flow from this torn throat was ebbing and his eyes were glassy and unfocused. The highborn shook the young druchii roughly. “Don’t die on me you damned fool!” the highborn snarled, but it was already far too late. Shevael’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp.

  Cursing bitterly, the highborn pulled the horn from around Shevael’s neck and with a grim look in his eye he pulled off the young highborn’s sword belt and buckled it about his waist. The tent by this point was blazing on every side, and waves of heat and choking smoke surrounded him. Coughing furiously, he snatched up the young highborn’s swords just as the Chaos champion regained his senses and kicked his way clear of the burning brazier.

  Malus fought a tide of black rage as the champion struggled to his feet. He wanted nothing more than to avenge himself upon the foul warrior, but this was not the time. The Chaos fiends had sprung their ambush, and if he didn’t get his troops out of the camp they were going to be slaughtered. He’d sooner see his soul lost to Tz’arkan for all time than suffer such a black stain to his honour. With a last, hateful look at the Chaos champion, Malus turned and raced back the way he’d come.

  As he pulled back the double hangings however, he was brought up short by a nightmarish scene of carnage. The long, rectangular tent swarmed with the pale figures of the living dead. The druchii corpses that had knelt in supplication along the narrow aisle had sprung to grisly life at some invisible command and attacked the knights Malus had left behind as a rearguard. Many of the stitched-together revenants had been hacked apart, but the rest now hunched over the ruptured bodies of the tower knights, their chalk-white hands slick with blood and torn meat. Several slack-jawed faces turned in Malus’ direction as he stood upon the threshold, and the highborn recoiled from the charnel scene with a blasphemous curse.

  Behind him the champion lurched to his feet and gathered up his swords. Malus looked quickly about, seeing nothing but flames to left and right, and came to a decision. Taking a deep breath, he raised Shevael’s blades and dived headlong through the blazing canvas to his left.

  Heat and smoke washed over him for a searing instant, and then he was stumbling through the darkened confines of an adjoining tent, piled high with cushions and sleeping furs. Malus staggered headlong across the tent and slashed at the far wall with both swords. A draught of cool air washed over the highborn’s face and he leapt through the shredded cloth, emerging into the night air. Screams and wild howls echoed through the flame-shot darkness all around the hill as the Chaos horde charged out of their hidden positions outside the camp and rushed at the druchii raiders. Knowing that every second counted for the isolated bands of cavalry and footmen, the highborn put Shevael’s horn to his lips and blew the general retreat as loudly as he could. He sounded the call three more times, pointing the horn to the east, north and west, then let the instrument fall to his side and headed back to the waiting knights as quickly as he could. As Nagaira’s pavilion burned, Malus cut his way through two more tents that lay between him and the mounted warriors, kicking aside piles of skulls and golden plunder as he went.

  At last he emerged, bloodied and smoke-stained, before the nervous household knights. They were facing outwards in a large circle, listening to the echoing cries of the enemy and waiting for the onslaught to begin. Even the nauglir sensed the peril approaching, pawing the earth and lowering their heads threateningly.

  “Here, Spite!” Malus called as he staggered up to the circle. The knights started at the ghastly apparition of the highborn. “My lord!” one of the druchii cried out. “We feared the worst—”

  “And you were right to do so,” the highborn said grimly, sheathing his left-hand sword. “I’ve led—us straight into an ambush.” Without waiting for Spite to sink to his haunches the highborn took a deep breath and hauled himself into the saddle. For good m
easure he drew the war-horn and sounded the retreat one last time, eliciting a chorus of savage howls from the darkness close by. “That’s it,” he shouted. “Close order formation! We’re falling back to the spearmen and we’re not stopping for anyone or anything.” He raised the sword in his right hand.

  “Household knights! Forward!” Malus said, and kicked Spite into a run just as the first mobs of beast-men came howling out of the burning night.

  Malus and the knights came thundering down out of the charred outskirts of the Chaos encampment with a screaming horde at their heels. True to his word, they’d smashed through or trampled over everything that stood in their path. The highborn’s sword streamed thick ropes of blood into the ashen wind, and the nauglirs’ snouts glistened with the vital fluids of beast-men and marauders who had been caught before the avalanche of steel and scale.

  More than a dozen riderless cold ones loped in the formation’s wake, following along with the rest of the pack now that no rider lived to guide them. Knights had been pulled from the saddle by leaping horrors, or felled by flung axes or spears. Each loss was a blow to Malus’ pride, a mark of failure that burned worse than any blade and added its weight to the disaster unfolding around him.

  As they burst from the smoking confines of the camp Malus looked to the brim of the low hill ahead and his spirits rose as he saw the long lines of spearmen, their shields and spear tips gleaming against the firelight. If they could hold long enough…

  Malus pointed his sword to the left and the household knights responded, pivoting smartly and thundering past the spear wall’s right flank. The highborn saw the wide-eyed faces of the front ranks as they galloped by, and sensed the fear gripping the young spearmen. No one had told them what was going on, but they knew something wasn’t right.

  The highborn led the knights down the reverse slope of the hill and called a halt. Off to the right, some fifty yards away, stood a knot of some two hundred cavalrymen. One banner of horse out of six; Malus glanced quickly about and bit back a curse when he could find no more. He turned back to the knights. “Who is the senior knight now that Lord Suheir is dead?”

  Searching glances passed between the assembled warriors. Finally a gruff-looking older knight raised his hand. “I am, my lord. Dachvar of Klar Karond.”

  “Very well, Dachvar. You’re in command now,” Malus said. “Rest your men and see to your mounts. I expect to have need of you again shortly.” Without waiting for a reply he turned Spite about and headed up behind the spear regiments at a run.

  The three units stood in close formation, nearly shield-to-shield about a quarter of the way down the hill-slope. Each spearman carried not only his spear, shield and short sword, but also a heavy repeating crossbow and a quiver of black bolts. These were now being loaded by the rear two ranks of each company as the highborn reached the crest of the hill and found Lord Meiron and Lord Rasthlan studying the howling, roaring mob of Chaos troops massing on the far hillside some two hundred yards distant. A short distance down the reverse slope he saw Rasthlan’s autarii scouts crouched together in a small group, smoking pipes and speaking to one another in low tones.

  Malus reined in beside the two commanders and hastily returned their salutes.

  “My compliments on your deployment, Lord Meiron,” the highborn said, using the advantage of height to study the disposition of the spear regiments. “I’d hoped we wouldn’t have need of your spears, but now it appears you’ll anchor our rearguard. Has there been any sign of our chariots or the rest of our cavalry?”

  “None, my lord,” Meiron replied gravely. “It’s possible the chariots were caught in the fires that swept through the enemy camp—we haven’t heard the rumble of their wheels for some time.” He gave the highborn a shrug. “As to the cavalry, they may be half a dozen leagues away by now. Most of those young bravos are like wolf cubs—they’ll chase anything that moves.”

  “Lord Irhaut thinks like a hill bandit, my lord,” Rasthlan interjected. “He has trained his banner leaders to retreat in the face of a superior foe and lead pursuers away from the rest of the army. What Lord Meiron means is that the light horse could be miles away to east and west, drawing off as many of the Chaos forces as possible.”

  From the look on Meiron’s face it was clear he meant to say no such thing—he was a dyed-in-the-wool infantry commander with nothing but disdain for cavalrymen—but Malus accepted Rasthlan’s explanation with a knowing nod. “Then let us pray to the Dark Mother that he and his men are successful,” the highborn said, his expression grim. “Because it looks like we have all we can handle right here.”

  A cacophonous roar filled the air at the edge of the Chaos encampment. Beastmen threw back their heads and brayed to the smoke-shrouded moon and tattooed humans beat their swords against their shields and howled the names of their blasphemous gods. They swelled in number with every passing moment, spilling like a black tide down the slopes of the far hill. Malus couldn’t guess at the size of the mob, but it was certain that the druchii were heavily outnumbered. The noise washed over the spear formations and murmurs of fear could be heard from among the state regiments. The Black Guard, holding the centre of the line, were silent and still as statues, waiting simply for the battle to begin.

  Lord Meiron turned to the spearmen and bellowed in a leathery voice that sawed through the raucous din. “Stand fast, you whoresons!” he snarled. “Shields up and eyes front! Those degenerate bastards are working up the courage to charge up this hill and throw away their lives! If I were a holy man I would fall to the ground and thank Khaine almighty for foes as stupid as these!”

  Cheers and hisses of laughter went up from the ranks, and the spearmen shook their weapons at the swelling horde. Lord Meiron turned back to Malus and smiled proudly. “Fear not, my lord,” he said. “We’ll see to these animals.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Lord Meiron,” Malus said with a nod, then wheeled Spite about and rode downhill to the group of cavalrymen. The light horsemen were stragglers from a number of different banners and were clearly exhausted, their faces and armour stained with layers of smoke and blood. As the highborn approached, the riders sat straighter in the saddle and chivvied their mounts into something resembling a formation. Malus pulled quickly into shouting distance and cried, “Secure the spears’ left flank! The household knights will take the right.” The banner leader acknowledged the order with a salute and began shouting orders to his men, and the highborn turned Spite about and raced back to the waiting knights.

  By the time he reached Dachvar the Chaos warriors were on the move. They seethed down the long slope in a ragged, bloodthirsty mass, running, shambling and loping with twisted and slithering strides. They waved crude weapons above their misshapen heads and screamed for the blood of their foes. To Malus’ eyes there looked to be more than ten thousand of them, a sight that filled even his black heart with dread. It never should have come to this, he thought bitterly. How had Nagaira anticipated him?

  The ground shook to the thunder of thousands of pounding feet. Horned heads and upraised swords stood out blackly against the hellish backdrop of the burning Chaos encampment.

  When the first of the enemy warriors were a third of the way from the bottom of the far hill, Malus heard the rough voice of Lord Meiron cry out, “Sa’an’ishar!” Instantly a rustle ran through the spear regiments as warriors readied their shields and levelled their long spear. Then: “Rear ranks! Ready crossbows!”

  A ripple of armoured forms ran the length of the battle line as druchii warriors raised their repeating crossbows to their shoulders and angled the weapons skyward. Lord Meiron raised his sword. “Ready… ready… fire!”

  Fifteen hundred crossbows thrummed, and a rain of black bolts hissed through the air. Not a one could fail to find a mark as they plunged into the mass of enemy troops, and howls of rage turned to agonized shrieks as the bolts tore through the poorly armoured warriors. Hundreds of humans and beastmen fell, their bodies trampled by their fellows a
s the rest of the mob ran on.

  The charging Chaos troops had reached the bottom of the hill. An oiled rattle echoed up and down the line as the druchii quickly reloaded their weapons. “Ready!” Lord Meiron cried. “Fire!”

  Another hissing storm of bolts plunged into the Chaos ranks. Hundreds more were wounded or slain, their bodies piling up at the base of the slope. Savage beastmen clambered over riddled corpses or knocked their injured mates aside, some crawling on all fours as they tried to reach the druchii line.

  Once again the repeater crossbows rattled, readying another volley. The front ranks of the foemen were less than fifty yards away. “First two ranks kneel!” Lord Meiron cried, and the spearmen dropped obediently to one knee. “Rear ranks, fire!”

  Black death scythed through the attackers, the powerful bolts punching completely through the closest enemy troops. The first three ranks of the Chaos warriors toppled like threshed wheat, and even Malus shook his head in awe at the scale of the slaughter. In less than a minute the hill slopes had become a killing field, carpeted with the bodies of the dead.

  Yet still the Chaos horde came on.

  They struck the line of spearmen with a great, rending crash of steel on wood that echoed from the hillsides. Axes, clubs, swords and claws battered against shield and helm, and the druchii line staggered beneath the weight of the enemy assault. It bent backwards a slow step at a time… then stopped. Malus could hear the rough voice of Lord Meiron spitting savage oaths at the troops, and the Black Guard responded with a collective roar. Spears flickered and stabbed into the press of foes, and howls of rage turned to screams of agony as the druchii warriors put their training and discipline to lethal effect.

  But would it be enough? Beastmen and marauders were dying by the score, but from Malus’ vantage point he could see spearmen pulled from the ranks and torn apart, or dashed to the ground by terrible blows. The flanking regiments were taking the worst of the punishment, their rear ranks rippling like wheat as wounded men were pulled from the line and new men rotated to take their place. The Chaos attack showed no signs of faltering, and more troops were streaming from the camp every minute to add their weight to the battle. If just one of the regiments broke and ran, the other two would be overwhelmed in moments.